


Split the Silence

by Mishafied



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Censorship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Major Character Injury, Romance, Slow Burn, Tags and pairings may be added as I go along, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-15 01:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16052438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishafied/pseuds/Mishafied
Summary: Connor is a constable of Detroit. He keeps the peace. He maintains the silence. He is structure and order.Markus is chaos, color, and noise. Markus is everything that Connor is meant to suppress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know if anyone would be interested in this continuing at all, but if you like the idea, hey, let me know. I thrive on feedback.

The hallway was full of people, and it was silent aside from the footfalls on the stone tiles.

 

Connor stood by the doors to exit the city hall, back straight, hands at his sides, eyes attentive as he studied each person who passed by him coming and going from the government facility. His grey suit cut clean lines against the stark white of the wall behind him, the blue of his arm band the only point of color in the entirety of the long hall. No one wore color anymore. 

 

It wasn’t safe. 

 

A slight, unusual movement caught Connor’s eye. Just a fleeting glance from a woman passing by, but there was fear in it. He was accustomed to nervous looks; his arm band inspired only anxiety in most people. But fear? That was enough to draw his attention. He stepped away from the wall and the nearest people moved quickly to clear a path for him, some stopping in their tracks and pointedly keeping their eyes down.

 

“Stop,” he ordered sharply. The woman slowed to a stop, her heels clicking in the now completely silent hallway. There was a long pause before she turned to face him, her blue eyes wide. Her jaw was tense, and her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly.

 

“Yes, Constable?”

 

“Open your bag.”

 

Connor’s words left no room for argument, and yet she hesitated again. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the purse in her hands, wrinkling the white fabric. A gap had formed around her, as if a wall had sprung up between her and the other people in the hall, a barrier that they dared not cross.

 

“Constable- sir- I was simply here to update my identification chip. I haven’t done anything-”

 

“Open your bag. I will not ask you again,” Conner said, and silence fell again like a heavy blanket over the alabaster walls and floor. No one came to her defense. No one moved to help her. Her eyes darted to the weapon at his waist, then back to his face before she took a few uneasy steps to close the distance between them. She fumbled in her first attempt to unlatch the clasp on her purse.

 

Connor watched impassively. He saw every tic, every trace of emotion in her movements as she opened her purse and held it out to him.

 

Her hands were trembling.

 

He took the bag from her with an ease that only came from repetition, and he studied the contents, his expression unchanging. Inside was a wallet containing her employment cards, her cell phone- properly unlocked so Connor could quickly unlock the screen and run a scan with the black band on his wrist- a comb for her tightly bound hair, and a small case of foundation to touch up her pale makeup. Under all of that was the pamphlet with the weekly itinerary issued to every citizen according to their social ranking and occupation.

 

“May I leave now?” she asked, her shoulders stiff and her hands poised to take her bag back.

 

Connor turned the bag over and the contents scattered across the floor, the foundation case cracking as it hit the stone tiles. A scattering of pale peach powder disrupted the steady white, but Connor only turned the bag back over, and then reached in and tore the seam inside.

 

“No, wait-”

 

The woman’s words fell on purposely deaf ears. Connor pulled the small, thick book out of the hidden pocket in the bag, and the red cover of it was bright as blood in his hands. He opened it, and the title page proved to be in a flowing script-  _ Catch-22 _ .

 

Despite the makeup on her face, the woman had gone as pale as the walls around her.

 

“Please, I- that’s my sister’s purse, I was borrowing it, I had no idea-”

 

Connor snapped the book shut. “Miss Marquez, your possession of an unauthorized text is in violation of civil codes 4.8 and 7.2-”

 

“ _ I didn’t know! _ ”

 

“-and I’m therefore required to confiscate the material for immediate destruction and administer the appropriate punishment as described in civil code 8.1.”

 

Connor pulled the gun at his waist, aimed, and fired in one smooth movement. The flash of heat in his hand was almost enough to burn his skin, and the silent blue light that flashed from the muzzle caused the people watching to flinch back.

 

The body hit the floor with a thud as Connor calmly holstered his weapon. The woman lay still, the hole in her forehead still glowing a soft blue where the laser had seared straight through, smoke curling up from the wound. Her blue eyes stared skyward, empty, devoid of any of the fear that had been there seconds ago, devoid of life.

 

Like an empty shell.

 

The people around them hurriedly went back to their daily routine, heads down.

 

“Clean up this mess,” he said to one of the stewards who stood shock still by the doors. Connor dropped the woman’s purse next to her body and turned, walking away without a glance back, without a single sign that he was troubled by what he’d just done.

 

Because he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. This was his purpose.

 

He was a constable. He kept the peace. He maintained the silence.

 

He did not doubt. Could not doubt.

 

He stepped into the incinerator room and let the door fall shut behind him, the heat of the open oven intense on his skin even through his clothing. He made quick work of logging the incident in the terminal there, put in an order to have the woman’s family investigated, then held up his wrist to allow it to scan the identification chip implanted in his wrist to finalize the report.

 

When he turned to put the book in the incinerator, a small slip of paper fell out of it.

 

He tossed the book into the smoldering flames before he knelt down and picked up the paper, turning it over to reveal more ornate script, this time handwritten in red pen.

 

_ the words of the prophets _

_ are written on the subway walls _

 

He stared at the words for a few long moments, trying to remember if he’d seen them before, but he could remember nothing like this. He’d never confiscated anything of the sort, nothing with that phrase, he was sure of it. The mystery clung to his mind as he stood and started to put the slip of paper into the incinerator.

 

At the last moment, he hesitated and pulled his hand back. The edges of the paper were brown and curled from the heat, but the phrase on it still stood out in bold red letters. Civilians weren’t permitted to dispense communications in any color except for black. This was illegal correspondence, no matter the words, no matter the reason.

 

But perhaps it meant something concrete. Perhaps it was a code, rather than a simple limerick that she had jotted down out of inspiration. He knew that the subway walls beneath the city were bare and grey, but still- it would be remiss of him to ignore possible clues.

 

He folded the paper and tucked it into his front pocket. Technically, if he was discovered to have withheld illegal correspondence without logging it or incinerating it, the head constable could have him sent to reconditioning. 

 

But something told him that this was evidence that he needed to follow up on. He’d acted on 14 violations of civil codes 4.8 and 7.2 in the past month, which was an increase of seven over last month. There had to be a pattern, and this paper could be the clue he needed to tear the dissidents out at the root.

 

After all, he was a constable. That was his purpose. It was his duty.

 

He kept the peace.

 

He maintained the silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor follows the path and finds himself in a new world.

The walls of the subway were, as per usual, a dull grey. There was nothing written on them, no texture aside from that of the bricks under the thick layer of grey paint. Connor wasn’t even entirely sure what he was looking for, or even if this was the right place to look. 

 

He thought about the paper tucked in his pocket, the words written on it-  _ the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls _ . He’d been so sure it was some kind of code, but now...now he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t taken a ridiculous, useless risk by keeping that paper.

 

It was his one day of the week off work, though, and he’d done his morning workout and reading of the weekly social pamphlets. He’d recited the city pledge. There was little else to do aside from put on his uniform and follow up on this lead before he had to report to the apartment cafeteria for the meal call tonight.

 

He walked farther down the subway tunnel, past where the people were waiting on the train, toward the door to the maintenance tunnel. Nobody would question him or stop him when he was in his uniform, so he paid little mind to those around him, just as he hadn’t paid any mind to the woman the day before until she drew his attention.

 

He thought back on the situation, what she’d had in her purse, and then he paused. He thought of the small compact that held powdered foundation, makeup that normally would not be questioned if any woman were to carry it.

 

He reached down and gathered a handful of dust on the concrete ground below, and then blew it at the wall- and in a few places, it stuck.

 

That was it.

 

He did the same thing a few more times, luckily out of view of those waiting on the trains to come and gol, until the words stood out in a darker grey against the wall.

 

_ Slaughterhouse-Five _

_ Twelve Angry Men _

 

Connor tilted his head. He vaguely recognized those as titles of books he’d confiscated in the past, but he didn’t have the context. Were the contents important? Or was it just the numbers that were vital?

 

Five and Twelve. There was a subway station at the intersection of Fifth Street and Twelfth Street. If that wasn’t it, he didn’t know what else it could be. He wiped his hand across the dust to get rid of the words- the last thing they needed was another citizen getting curious about this strange sort of deviancy.

 

It was troubling. This level of organization meant that there must be many more of these deviants that had been missed in the regular surveillance and sweeps. It meant that Connor and the other constables obviously had not been doing their jobs well enough.If this led to a massive bust, then they may well get punished rather than praised for allowing it to go on for this long without finding out about it earlier.   
  


The last thing Connor wanted was to be sent to reconditioning for not performing well enough at his job. He didn’t know what happened there- no one did- but he’d often been the one to guide people from the reconditioning facility back to their home or place of work.

 

They were like empty shells of a person. They answered questions when asked. When told to perform a task, they did so without complaint or inquiry. But their eyes were hollow. It was as if someone had opened them up and scraped out any hint of humanity within them. 

 

The wardens at the reconditioning unit boasted their one hundred percent success rate in creating perfect, model citizens. Connor’s goal was to remain perfect enough that he would never require their assistance to achieve that.

 

The subway station at Fifth and Twelfth was set up exactly the same as the previous one; had it not been for the LED sign over the station entrance, it would be near impossible to tell them apart. He returned to the same spot, the wall just beside the maintenance tunnel door, and repeated the same trick to reveal the words on the wall.

 

_ Catch-22 _

 

That was the title of the book the woman had yesterday. The one he’d burned. Obviously, though, the title had a different context here. It had to have something to do with the number, just like the previous riddle, but it was only one number. So it wasn’t an intersection, or coordinates.

 

Maybe...a measure of distance. Feet? Steps?

 

He hesitated. This was dangerously close to deviancy. He was forced to engage their thinking in order to pursue this, and that was one thing Amanda had warned them never to do. That simply tipping the scale toward deviance could unbalance the mind.

 

But he was so  _ close _ . He could feel it. If he caught them, maybe she would overlook this possible misstep. 

 

He turned and went through the maintenance tunnel door and let it fall shut behind him, then took 22 careful steps. He found himself at an intersection, with three pathways branching off. He knelt down, gathered dust from the floor, and used it to find the next words in the puzzle.

  
  


_ East of Eden _

 

East. He needed to go east. He got his bearings, imagined the roads above him, and then turned right and walked until he came to another intersection, another clue.

 

_ Middlemarch _

_ Roots _

 

Middlemarch. Middle. He continued on straight, until the next hint became obvious; tree roots from the park above were breaking through the ceiling, curling down the walls. The smell of cleaning supplies and dust gave way to the earthy smell of the dirt above him. He searched for another clue, only to find the words, plus a panel of numbers below that lit up blue in the dark tunnel.

 

_ The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything _

 

He...had no idea. Obviously he was missing a reference here that these deviants would recognize instantly, a reference that he had no experience with. He stared at the numbers and thought for a few long moments before deciding that if he couldn’t figure out the riddle, he would work around it.

 

This keypad was similar to the kinds used in a few of the government buildings downtown, and all of them were required to have a workaround for emergency access. The only people who knew that workaround code were the police and the constables; if the people who installed this one weren’t aware of that, they may not have disabled that back door. 

 

He punched in 0911*, and the light above the keypad flashed green- and then a hidden door slid open to reveal a dark hallway with a door at the end. Light spilled out from behind the door, as if it were a portal rather than a mere metal barrier, almost hypnotizing in the darkness.

 

He shouldn’t go farther. He should return to the city hall and report this to Amanda so an immolation team could be sent in. 

 

He heard noises from beyond the door, a gentle, rhythmic noise, and found himself moving forward without thought. The automatic door slid shut behind him, and he opened that second door, flinching at the onslaught of light and... _ color _ .

 

There were so many colors on the walls of this hallway, swirled together in abstract designs , nearly overwhelming in their visual cacophony. He’d never seen this much color in his life, never imagined there could be so many different shades of it. Between that and the foreign, flowing sound of music down the narrow hall, he had trouble taking it all in, and found himself frozen in place.

 

He’d stepped into another world, beneath the feet of those who walked in the monochrome one above. He’d stepped into the heart of deviance. He needed to get  _ out _ , he needed to report this-

 

He turned and started to go, and something struck him from behind. He stumbled and reached for his weapon, but another blow to the back of his knees sent him sprawling to his hands and knees in the dirt. In moments there were hands grabbing at his arms, yanking them back, and he felt a tug at his belt as someone took his weapon.

 

“What the  _ fuck _ is a constable doing down here? How did he get in?” a woman’s voice said, and then she stepped in front of him, her pretty face twisted into a glare of hatred. He didn’t try to move- she had his gun in her hands, and she was holding it as if she knew exactly how to use it. The sleek white metal of the weapon was a stark contrast to the asymmetrical, threadbare reds and oranges of her clothes and jewelry, and the red paint on her face, accentuating her sharp cheekbones in what looked like liquid sunset. Threads of red and orange were twisted into her braided hair, like flames licking their way up the strands.

 

“Don’t know. Let’s get him to Markus,” a man’s voice said from behind him, an older, gruff voice that matched the powerful grip on his wrists.

 

“I can’t even begin to tell you how many city codes and federal laws you’re breaking at this moment,” Connor started to say, and the woman lifted the gun, pressing it against his forehead.

 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him. Markus can do whatever he wants, but I’m killing this-”

 

“ _ North _ . We’re not going to stoop to their goddamn level. We’re taking him to Markus.”

 

North stayed still for a few long moments with her finger on the trigger before she lowered the weapon with a noise of disgust, and Connor let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. She didn’t look at him again, only stepped past him, and Connor grunted as the man yanked him to his feet.

 

“You’ve really gotten yourself in deep,” the man said, using his grip to guide Connor down the hallway. “Best hope Markus can keep this from turning into a bloodbath.”

 

Connor was pretty sure that whoever Markus was, he wouldn’t be able to quell the fury he’d seen in the woman’s face. It wasn’t something he was unfamiliar with- it was the anger he saw when he’d just had to execute someone’s loved one as they stood by and watched.

 

He shouldn’t have gone through the door. He should have gone back to report this, should have waited for backup; now, for the first time in a long time, he felt out of control of the situation. It made his throat dry and his heart thud rapidly against his ribs, knowing that his fate was in the hands of these deviants. 

 

The music stopped as they reached a large room, and North went in first, tossing the weapon with practiced ease to a man standing in a small gathering off to the side of the room. “Look what we found lurking in the hall,” she snapped, and the man turned, mismatched eyes widening when he saw Connor.

 

The room fell silent. Connor counted at least two dozen deviants here, all dressed in a similar fashion to North, all in outlandish colors and brandished with body paint. Every wall of the room was splashed with color, and complex sculptures hung from the ceiling, lanterns in them spilling moving light on everything below. Easels of artwork leaned against every wall, and there were shelves upon shelves of illegal literature, and a piece of old technology that he recognized as one that used to be used to play music. He could even see a few antique musical instruments leaning up against one wall.

 

It was the most contraband he had ever seen in one place in his life, but he didn’t have time to focus on it. The one they called Markus was closing the distance between them, and giving a nod to the man holding Connor captive.

 

“Let go of him, Hank. He’s not going to try anything around so many of us,” he said, and there was a pause before the grip let up on his wrists. The man who had been holding him stepped into view, an older man with long white hair and a thick beard, wearing loose clothes that looked like they’d once been more colorful than they now were.

 

“He was past the last barrier,” Hank said, and Markus nodded and studied Connor with a curiosity that left him feeling...uncomfortable. Like a bug pinned to the mat for dissection. He rubbed the feeling back into his wrists and kept his chin held high, unwilling to show the fear that settled like a stone in his stomach.

 

“You’re a clever one,” Markus said, his voice calm and smooth despite the circumstances. Connor didn’t answer; he wasn’t to engage deviants when they held the upper hand. It wasn’t a protocol he’d ever had to put into action before, and he’d hoped he would never have to. Markus didn’t look discouraged, though. In fact, he looked even more inquisitive.

 

“How did you get past the last door? I know you haven’t read the book,” he said, and Connor clenched his jaw and kept his eyes forward. 

 

_ Don’t engage. Maintain calm. You are order. You are structure. City hall does not bow _ .

 

“This is useless, Markus. Let’s just kill him,” North said, pacing nervously off to one side. “You know how brainwashed these bastards are. He’s pretty much a  _ machine _ . He’ll just turn us in or kill us the second he gets the chance.”

 

“No,” Markus said, no hesitation, no pause for thought. “He had to find one of our clues above ground, and then he had to follow those clues to get this far. It’s the same thing most of us did to get here.”

 

“He’s a murderer!”

 

“He’s _ not _ a lost cause,” Markus insisted, and a flicker of emotion crossed Connor’s face, a confused frown. Why was this deviant defending him? He had every intention of getting out of this place and making a full report to city hall on what he’d found.

 

“So what’s the plan? Just let him go?” another man said, tall and dark-skinned, clothed in shades of dark green. “Come on, Markus, be realistic. He can’t leave now that he knows. He’ll destroy everything we’ve built here.”

 

Markus fell silent, touching Connor’s face gently to catch his gaze. Blue and green met brown with an intensity that had Connor holding his breath, until the man finally pressed a hand to Connor’s shoulder, pushing him down to his knees.

 

This was it. Connor was going to be executed, and the deviants would be free to continue this-

 

Markus moved away from Connor, over to one of the tables nearby, and he set down the gun and picked up a palette instead. Wet paint was smeared and dabbed across it, colors mixed to create new colors, most of which Connor had never seen in his life. He returned to stand in front of Connor, staring down at him thoughtfully.

 

“You can’t be serious,” North snapped, and Connor saw Hank shift his weight uncomfortably from the corner of his eye.

 

“Markus, do you know what you’re doing? Really?”

 

“Of course I do,” Markus said, and Connor tried to make sense of what was going on- only to become more confused when Markus dipped two fingers into a vibrant shade of light blue paint, and then smeared two marks across each side of Connor’s face. ”He took the first steps of his own free will. It’s tradition that we induct him.”

 

“What-?” Connor said, the word almost choked out as a blond man stepped to Markus’ side with a book. The blond looked uncertain, but Markus was still resolute as he traded the palette for the book, opening it to a marked page.

 

“And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about,” Markus recited, his voice lyrical, and then he gripped Connor’s shoulder firmly. “You are free, brother. You have a place here among us. What you choose to do from here can make up for what you’ve done in the past.”

 

“You’re going to get us all killed, Markus,” North said, but Markus ignored her, and instead pulled Connor to his feet again. 

 

“There won’t be blood shed here tonight,” Markus said, and he reached over to grab Connor’s gun and held it out to him, grip first. “You’re free to go. Do whatever you feel is right- all I ask is that you decide that of your own free will instead of a set of rules.”

 

Connor took the gun, and a tense moment followed as the deviants watched and waited. Connor, after all, could shoot Markus right now. He could probably kill quite a few of them before they got the upper hand again.

 

He slid his weapon back in the holster, and told himself it was because he was severely outnumbered. Certain that this was some kind of trick, he turned and walked toward the exit, the deviants stepping aside to clear a path for him.

 

“Wait,” Markus called out, and Connor stopped in the doorway without looking back. “What’s your name?”

 

Connor’s response was immediate. Mechanical. “I am Constable RK800.”

 

“No. Your  _ name _ .”

 

“...My name is Connor.”

 

Connor stepped out of the room and walked faster as he made his way toward the exit. He needed to get the paint off his face before he was seen, and then he needed to make his report.

 

He had to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world around Connor is more unfamiliar with every passing second. Unwanted memories and intrusive thoughts start to grow into his day like weeds through concrete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and reviews, everyone. They mean the world to me when I'm trying to motivate myself to write.
> 
> I have ideas for where this is going, but nothing is set in stone. So I'm afraid I can't confirm any guesses. :P

That night, Connor dreamed in color.

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed in color. Maybe when he was a child, before he took the state aptitude testing and was relocated for training to be a constable. Before he’d stood in a line of other children at their first exam, and watched her fail out half of his class and promptly execute them to display the seriousness of the situation.

 

No one neglected their studies or their training after that. No one told stories anymore. No one spread rumors. Any hint of deviancy resulted in swift and permanent punishment.

 

He hadn’t dreamed in color since long before then. He had a vague memory of asking his mother why no one wore anything colorful, and she’d hit him so hard it bloodied his nose.

 

He was confused, but she was _terrified_. He never asked again. And after being relocated, he never saw her or his father again. He didn’t even know if they were alive. He supposed one search would reveal the answer to that, but such a small thing could set off deviancy alarms in the servers.

 

 

It was so long ago. He doubted they missed the son they’d had for only six years. There was no point in digging into the past now.

 

No one wanted to be related to a constable, after all.

 

He found himself staring into the mirror in the dimly lit bathroom long before the scheduled alarm would go off to wake him for breakfast. He could still remember the blue that swirled down the porcelain of the sink, could still faintly hear the festive tones of foreign music in his mind.

 

Why hadn’t he killed them? Why hadn’t he gone straightaway to report them?

 

He stared himself down in the mirror, and found no answers there. He rubbed at his cheek as if to wipe off the phantom traces of bright blue paint, even though he knew that it was gone. Washed away.

 

He thought of his five year old self, tugging at his mother’s grey sleeve as she put their meager rations onto scratched white plates.Thought of the way her features shifted to something close to horror when he simply asked her that one question.

 

_Mom, why doesn’t anyone wear any other colors?_

 

He shook his head and straightened up, and he turned away from the mirror. He didn’t have time for this. Obviously his experience last night had compromised him in some way; he would rectify that by turning in the illegal operation to Amanda today. If she asked why he hadn’t come last night, he could simply say that they would be expecting an attack that night, and that he chose to wait to allow them to fall back into complacency. To believe they’d actually swayed him somehow.

 

They hadn’t. He was a constable. He did not doubt. They may have caught him off guard, but they would not shake him.

 

The alarm shattered his thoughts like so much breaking glass, and he went back to the bedroom to turn it off before starting his day. He would stick to the routine; surely that would center his thoughts and put his mind at ease.

 

He did the same as he would every other day. He watched the daily report on the television, which was its usual reporting of the weather for the day, followed by praising the continued rise of the economy and reminding citizens that reporting any signs of deviancy would increase their household food rations by ten percent for an entire month.

 

It was enough to have brothers turn on sisters, and husbands on wives. Those who did menial labor earned barely enough rations to survive. False reporting had been a problem, until they started cutting the household rations in half for those who blindly accused another of deviancy. The reward for being a watchful citizen was great, but the punishment for being a careless one was greater.

 

As a constable, Connor was one of the lucky ones. He never had to worry about having enough food. The city government wanted their constables in perfect condition at all times.

 

He ate his breakfast rations as he went through his emails, and then he put on his suit and went off to work.

 

He reached the city hall before his shift was due to start, and he started to make his way up to Amanda’s office. He had to make his report. If he put it off any longer, he would have no excuse for the delay, and suspicion would fall on him just as much as the actual criminals. But as the elevator climbed, his resolve wavered.

 

They’d had the chance to kill him, to keep themselves truly safe, and yet Markus had spared him. Despite the fact that everyone else there seemed to think it was a horrible mistake, he had insisted on letting Connor leave unscathed. Initiated. It was madness, it was foolishness.

 

It wasn’t his business if Markus made a poor decision. He needed to do his duty as a constable.

 

The elevator glided smoothly to a stop on the 44th floor, and Connor stepped out and down the hall, waving his security clearance badge over the sensor by the door. Inside was a small waiting area, where Amanda’s secretary sat working on the schedules for the next week.

 

“Good morning, Chloe,” he said, and she looked up with a gentle smile.

 

“Good morning, Connor. Here to see Ms. Stern?” she asked, and Connor nodded. He liked Chloe; she was pleasant and dependable, and she seemed to have no fear of either Amanda or the constables, unlike most citizens. If he had to point to one citizen as a picture of the perfect society the government wished to create, Chloe would be that citizen, surely.

 

She picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for Amanda’s office, and after a short conversation, the second door slid open. Connor thanked her and moved on, stepping into Amanda’s office and trying to calm his nerves.

 

He didn’t know why he was nervous. He was just making a report.

 

Amanda stood as calm and resolute as a pillar in her sharp white suit, only turning to face Connor once the door behind him slid shut. Anyone else would judge her expression as anger or irritation, but Connor knew better. He’d known her for long enough to know that this was simply a neutral expression for her, however severe it might seem. It worked for her, given the gravity of her position. She held the lives of every citizen in her hands, along with the reins of the constables.

 

“Connor,” she said in greeting with the slightest nod of her head. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning.”

 

“I’ve come here early to make a report,” he said in reply, and he opened his mouth to continue, but-

 

His breath hitched in his throat, and he twitched, just the slightest bit. All at once he remembered the flurry of colors, the rhythm of the music trembling through the dirt under his feet, the fear obvious on their faces when they looked at him, North’s voice calling him a machine-

 

_Except Markus. Markus wasn’t afraid of you. Markus looked at you like-_

__

_-like you were_ ****_human_**** **** _-_

 

“Connor? Are you alright?”

 

Amanda’s words snapped him out of the trance he’d been in, and he shook his head as if to clear it of the unwanted thoughts. “I- I’m fine. I apologize.”

 

Amanda didn’t look convinced. “You look troubled.”

 

“I have a headache today, that’s all. But I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of completing my shift.”

 

Amanda studied him with narrowed eyes for a few long moments, but Connor didn’t waver, despite the fact that his mind was racing. He’d just lied to Amanda. That was a crime, one punishable by being sent for reconditioning, but he couldn’t have told her the truth. That would have been much, much worse.

 

“You said you have a report to make,” she said, seeming to let the incident go by without further comment, and Connor nodded once.

 

“Yes, I do,” he started to say, back on familiar ground. He steeled his will and told himself that this was the right thing. It had to be. “The report came back on the deviant’s family that we investigated yesterday. I’ve gone through the report over breakfast, and it seems her family was not aware of her deviancy, as they were not close. I’ve marked them as innocent with a note to add them to the list for future monitoring.”

 

That wasn’t what he came here to report. What was he doing? This was high treason. This was worse than deviancy, this was aiding and abetting an entire group of deviants-

 

“It’s just as well that they were unaware. Less of a chance that she has poisoned the well, so to speak,” Amanda said, oblivious to the turmoil going on in Connor’s mind. His chest felt tight, and it was a fight to keep himself looking as neutral as he should be.

 

“But you were correct to refer them to the surveillance team. After a few months we can reduce their threat levels to normal if they’ve shown no signs,” Amanda continued on, just as her phone beeped in her hand. “Unless you’ve something else to report, you’d best be off to start your shift.”

 

Connor stared ahead blankly. “I…have nothing else to report, ma’am.”

 

Amanda watched him for a moment longer. “Stop by the commisary and get some aspirin,” she ordered before she turned away to answer her phone, effectively dismissing him. Connor turned and numbly made his way out of the room and back to the elevator, only nodding to Chloe as he passed by her.

 

What had he done? What had possessed him to act so foolishly? All he had to do was tell her, and all of this would have been over. Perhaps he would have earned a strike on his record for the unnecessary delay in reporting, but the cancer under the city would have been cut out before it could spread.

 

Now he was powerless. He could do nothing without signing his own death warrant.

 

 _ _He__  was the poison in the well, as Amanda would so aptly put it.

 

Not knowing what else to do, he went to start his shift at the exit to city hall. But today, things felt different. Today those fearful glances from those who walked by him began to unsettle him. Was he really such a monster?

 

He kept the peace. That was his duty, his purpose. Society was functioning smoothly because every person knew the rules and knew their place, most of all the constables. He was only doing his part to prevent chaos. Every citizen knew how bad things were back before the government stepped in to give people the leadership they so desperately needed.

 

Rampant murder, sky high unemployment, civil disobedience, attacks of terrorism; the price of complete freedom was millions of lives. It was better this way. Everyone was assigned a job that was appropriate for their mental aptitude. Everyone ate enough to live, even if some didn’t eat enough for true comfort. Crime rates were so low in the cities as to be negligible, since the constables acted swiftly on anyone who disturbed the civil peace.

 

If he was simply a tool used to ensure this lasting peace they had, then why did people look at him with such fear? If they followed the rules, they had nothing to fear.

 

Perhaps all of them were, at least in thought, some measure of deviant.

 

But if any true deviants walked by him that day, he didn’t notice. He wasn’t focused; his mind felt like everything had shifted slightly, like everything that had been normal to him was now slightly unfamiliar. He almost felt like his body was on autopilot as he returned to his apartment and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

 

He looked up, and at first thought he was hallucinating when he saw Markus leaning back against the small breakfast bar, dressed in a dark grey suit. He froze, eyes wide with a dawning horror that this was real. That all of today had been real, and not some deviancy fueled nightmare of his life falling to pieces beneath him.

 

“Connor,” Markus said, and he smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. It was odd to witness, after seeing a parade of false and neutral expressions all day, and eyes that turned away the moment Connor turned his gaze on them.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, though the words came out weak at best. Markus laughed softly, and he pushed away from the counter and closed the distance between them.

 

“North said that I’d sentenced all of us to death. That before dawn you’d have a team of constables kicking down our door and burning down our home,” he said, as if Connor hadn’t even spoken. “Imagine her surprise when we were still breathing even at noon today.”

 

“I should have reported you.”

 

“But you didn’t,” Markus said, and he tilted his head with an amused look. “Why not?”

 

Connor couldn’t stand being pinned under that scrutiny. He stepped around Markus to the table, and then he took off his weapon and his phone and set them down. Routine. He just had to stick to the routine, even if it had been quite rudely interrupted. “I still could. I still might.”

 

“If you do, you’ll be in just as much danger as us. We have proof you were there. You really think we didn’t have any surveillance in those halls?”

 

“Well, maybe that’s what should happen,” Connor said, the anger in his own voice surprising him. “I- I _should_  be punished for this. I’ve broken the law. It’s only just that I be treated as such.”

 

“You and I have very different definitions of _just_.”

 

“You can’t simply make up your own definitions of things, Markus. That’s not how the world works.”

 

Markus stepped back in front of Connor, forcing him to look at him, those mismatched eyes filled with a fire of determination. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Connor, but I’m not happy with how the world works right now. And I plan to do something about it, unlike everyone else who are happy to scurry like rats anytime the constables show up.”

 

“You’re reckless. You’re going to get yourself and all of your accomplices killed.”

 

“They’re _friends_ , not accomplices. I know the idea is a bit foreign to you, but they stick around because they support the cause and they want to take that risk if it means making a change in this city.”

 

“You’ll all die _uselessly_.”

 

“Well, at least we’ll die standing up for something,” Markus snapped, and he stepped away, leaving Connor standing by the table in a state of confusion. He didn’t understand. If they tried to display any signs of outward deviancy, all they would achieve would be a higher body count for that day.

 

The system _worked_. It didn’t make any sense to throw away your life trying to change something so set in stone.

 

“Why are you here?” he asked, watching Markus pace back and forth beside the couch. “Why are you even telling me this? Just because I made an error in judgment doesn’t mean I’m sympathetic to your ridiculous cause.”

 

Markus stopped pacing and looked at Connor with an almost exasperated sort of fondness. “I’m here because I wasn’t lying when I told North that you’re not a lost cause,” he explained. “Any other constable would have brought backup with them the moment they cracked the code and realized the subways might be compromised. Any other constable would have sounded the alarm on us the second that they were free to do so. You didn’t. You’re not beyond help. You might be the only constable who isn’t.”

 

“I don’t need your help. I’m sworn to do my duty and that’s what I plan to do.”

 

“So turn us in, then. If you’re so confident in the system, then turn us in, and turn yourself in. Wouldn’t that be what a true constable would do if they realized they were compromised?”

 

Connor’s mouth clicked shut. He didn’t have anything to say to that, because Markus was right. That was what he should do; he should report the deviants’ haven to Amanda, and then turn himself over to the tribunal for judgment. He wasn’t a deviant, but he was obviously heavily compromised.

 

And he was _scared_.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Markus said, judging his silence for what it was. “We’re starting our plan tomorrow. The afternoon news set that broadcasts from city hall- we’re going to hijack it. And you know that you’re going to let us, Connor. So, I’m just going to leave this offer open- when we escape, come with us.”

 

“I _can’t_.”

 

“I don’t want an answer tonight. I just want you to know that you’ll be accepted with open arms if you come with us after the broadcast. Even North has agreed to give you a chance, despite everything.”

 

“Just leave,” Connor said sharply, turning away from Markus. His gun was right there. He should execute the deviant, turn himself in, but- he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it.

 

The door opened and shut, and Connor suddenly felt more alone than he’d ever felt in his life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor feels like all the decisions he's been making are wrong, and yet he can't seem to stop the downward spiral.

Connor tried to follow his normal evening routine. He turned on the news so his apartment wouldn’t be flagged as non-compliant, but he had trouble actually focusing on what the anchor was saying. It was likely more of the same anyway; there was rarely any news that was different from what they heard every other morning and evening.

 

Amanda ensured that anything different was logged and recorded, but certainly not reported on. She insisted that it was to ensure the happiness and stability of the populace. Connor didn’t question her. It wasn’t his place.

 

But sticking to his routine couldn’t distract him from the thoughts clouding his mind. Yet again, he was deviating. Markus had told him that the deviants would be attacking the city hall directly tomorrow in order to take control of the broadcasting room there, and yet…Connor was still here, in his apartment, acting as if nothing was wrong.

 

He should have gone straight to Amanda to report the upcoming attack. Yet again, he hadn’t done what he was supposed to do. Yet again, he chose to allow himself to dwell in deviancy and protect Markus and his people instead of doing his sworn duty. He was a failure, and yet-

 

He couldn’t face it. When he thought of turning Markus in, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest, leaving him unsettled and frustrated.

 

He practically trudged to his bedroom, only to freeze in the doorway; there was a small black bag on his bed that definitely hadn’t been there before he left home this morning.

 

Another slip up. He should have searched his apartment immediately, once he knew that the uninvited guest had left. Who knew what Markus could have left here? Connor obviously wasn’t thinking straight. He was completely losing touch with logic, and these deviants were surely the ones to blame. He marched over to the bed and took hold of the bag, bracing himself for anything as he unzipped it- only to find two items inside.

 

One he was familiar with- it was a book, just like many others he had confiscated and incinerated before. He lifted it out of the bag and turned it over to study the cover- The Caine Mutiny, it read, with the author’s name below. Herman Wouk. No doubt a man who’d lived many, many years ago, before artistic outlets were banned.

 

He set the book aside, and he told himself he would incinerate it first thing in the morning when he went in. He would log it as an abandoned find; that wasn’t unheard of, to have people drop off books in darkened alleys or trash bins either in the hopes that another deviant would find it, or with the intention of getting rid of the evidence of their deviancy without the risk of being found out.

 

He took the other object from the bag and turned it over in his hands. It was a small recording device with a pair of earbuds attached, similar to what the manual laborers wore to listen to the daily reports when they couldn’t leave their work unattended.

 

He had the feeling it wasn’t governmental reports that were recorded on it.

 

He put both of them aside, feeling slightly ill at the sight of the banned contraband in his own home. He just wouldn’t touch them; he would leave them till morning, take them to city hall, and incinerate them. Then, when Markus arrived, he would repel the attack like he would any other deviant activity.

 

He and the other constables would put down this rebellion before it even began.

 

He took a shower and changed for bed, though as he passed by the dresser, he slowed to a stop and glanced at the book again. After a few moments of thought, he picked it up and opened it to the title page, only to find a handwritten note on the title page.

 

It was in red pen- and in the same flowing script that had been on the note he confiscated at city hall.

 

_Connor,_

_This was the first fictional book that I ever read. It belonged to my father, Carl, and it means the world to me. He gifted it to me when he felt I was old enough to understand just why this was important, and how dangerous it was. I want you to have it; I think you’ll appreciate it if you’ll only give it a chance._

_\- Markus_

 

Connor swallowed hard. Obviously Markus’ father had been a deviant as well, pretty much dooming Markus to a life of deviancy himself.But it sounded as if he’d been close to his father, at least.

 

Connor couldn’t help but wonder what it was like. He barely remembered his own father. Sometimes he could still summon up the memory of his parents, though it was easiest when he was in that grey, thin veil between sleep and wakefulness. It was fleeting, mere glimpses of a past that had been unimportant to him for so many years now.

 

His parents hadn’t given him anything aside from the necessary, healthy respect for the rules that they lived under.

 

He turned the pages past the copyright and the forward by the author, along with a strange list of rules in what had once been the United States Navy, to where the first chapter finally began.

 

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. So far he had merely been an unwilling participant in all of this, but if he actually chose to investigate what Markus left him, it was a step he couldn’t take back. He would no longer be able to say that he was just dragged into all of this, that he’d rejected all of their attempts to sway him into deviancy.

 

There couldn’t be any book that would be worth giving up everything he’d spent his entire life working for.

 

He remembered dreaming in bright, vivid colors.

 

He remembered the first and last time he’d asked his mother about one of the forbidden topics.

 

He remembered the pain of her answer- and not just the physical pain.

 

He slid his fingers across the stark black letters on the page, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed and started to read.

 

* ~~~~~~~~ *

 

That night, he dreamed of music.

 

He dreamed of both the music he’d heard in the underground, and the music on the recording device that Markus had left him. He’d been up half the night, first reading, and then letting his curiosity get the better of him about the other half of Markus’ gift; he ended up listening to the music on the player until after midnight. Each song was radically different from the last- some slow and mournful, some fast and energetic. Some had lyrics, and others were only instrumentation, but all of them were intriguing in their own way.

 

He tried to tell himself that he was merely learning about the enemy, but over breakfast, he found himself eager to continue on and find out if Willie Keith would in fact find his place in the Navy. He wanted to know how such an ill fit for the military could find himself in the middle of the mutiny mentioned in the title.

 

He was beginning to wonder what was so dangerous about these texts, but at the same time, wasn’t it evident just from how distracted he’d become? Before all of this, he would have started the day completely focused on his work. He would have been mentally centered. Now, with these distractions, he felt like his thoughts were scattered to the wind.

 

This wasn’t the way a healthy citizen functioned in society. These mental wanderings were the very definition of deviancy.

 

He would destroy both the book and the music player today. He had to. Once they were gone, he would be able to put all his efforts into his work with none of these useless distractions.

 

He just had to destroy them. He couldn’t lose his nerve.

 

He arrived at work early and started for the incineration room, but as he got closer, his steps slowed. He suddenly felt bad- Markus had said the book belonged to his father, that it was important to him, and it brought Connor up short.

 

If he had something passed down to him from his parents, he would likely be quite attached to it. He certainly couldn’t see himself giving something like that away to a near stranger. He didn’t understand why Markus would give it to him, a constable knowing full well it would likely be destroyed.

 

He didn’t understand Markus’ trust in him.

 

He didn’t-

 

He stepped back from the door, the weight of the book like a brick in the bag at his side. If he kept it, he risked being discovered with it, and then he would certainly be executed or sent to reconditioning.

 

He honestly didn’t know which would be worse.

 

His indecision turned into a jolt of fear, and he forced himself to move. He went to the break room where they had personal lockers for their extra uniforms, and he shoved the bag into the bottom of the locker, where the clothing hanging above would mostly hide it on the unlikely chance that someone might glance in there.

 

No one had reason to doubt his devotion to his work. Not yet, anyway. But with each passing hour, it seemed like more and more of a hurdle to keep himself from showing any of that doubt on his face.

 

He couldn’t doubt. He was a constable.He couldn’t-

 

He couldn’t doubt. And yet.

 

He went to his post. He didn’t know what else he could do; going to Amanda and warning her of the attack would only bring the full force of her suspicion down on him. Then they would do an investigation, they would find the book and the music- maybe that was Markus’ plan all along. To bring Connor down with them if Connor decided to turn them in.

 

As logical as it seemed, he also had trouble believing it, when he imagined Markus’ face. He’d seemed so earnest, so optimistic despite the situation.

 

About an hour into his shift, he saw a familiar face in the crowd- it was North, wearing a sharply pressed grey suit, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail instead of the messy braid it had been in before. Next to her was Josh, dressed in a manual worker’s uniform, with a janitorial badge.

 

This was his chance. All he had to do was call attention to them, another constable would step in, and this would end.

 

His hand twitched toward his weapon just as North’s gaze focused on him. For a moment, it was as if time slowed down; he was so close to pulling his weapon. It was all he had to do; an on-the-spot execution of both of them, an order to have the building searched for the others, and this whole rebellion would be quelled. He might even be commended for his instincts being so sharp.

 

The pair walked by and disappeared around a corner, and Connor did nothing.

 

He felt like he was suffocating. He felt like screaming at himself and falling apart all at once. He felt like he’d lost control of the situation, lost control of himself, and now anything that happened today would be his fault. His responsibility.

 

Maybe one of the other constables would realize that something wasn’t quite right. Maybe his inaction wouldn’t cause the whole situation to unravel. Sure, he was among the best of Amanda’s constables, but surely one of the others would notice something- then Connor wouldn’t have to betray Amanda _or_  Markus.

 

All he could do now was wait and see.

 

And he didn’t have to wait long, as it turned out. In just under fifteen minutes his phone began to make an alert noise- as did everyone else’s in the vicinity. It was a broadcast on the emergency alert channel, and when he opened his phone, he saw Markus- dressed in bright reds and oranges, like a fire set to blaze.

 

He was nearly transfixed at first before another constable rushed by, and he realized that he couldn’t watch- he needed to follow suit. They needed to get into that studio upstairs and stop this before it went any further.

 

Or did they? Did he really want to stop this?

 

Did it matter what he wanted?

 

“They’ve blockaded the studio!” one of the other constables said as they got to the studio doors. One of the constables started working at the entry security panel, and two others started to pry the doors open, but Connor stepped back.

 

There was another way out. It was an emergency exit that, as far as he was aware, had never been used; he wasn’t sure any of the other constables even knew it was there. He immediately retreated down the hallway and made a break for it, though even as he ran, he reminded himself that he should have told the other constables about it. He shouldn’t go alone.

 

Nevertheless, he bypassed the main route to the emergency exit without a single glance back. He pulled his weapon and made sure it had a full charge as he ran.

 

This had gone too far. He’d indulged this flight of fancy for far too long, and he needed to put an end to it. They were destroying the peace that Connor worked so hard to achieve here, destroying everything that the constables stood for, everything from Amanda’s grand vision of what the city could be.

 

He would end it right now.

 

He was almost too late. He skidded into the hall to see the group of them already down the hall and running, and he sprinted to catch up just as the last of them stumbled and fell to the floor.

 

He caught up in seconds and raised his weapon as the person turned over to face him, and he froze when he saw that it was Hank- the same person who’d stopped North from executing him in that hallway in the underground.

 

“North, don’t-!” he heard Markus shout, and he looked up to see North with a gun pointed at him- that is, until Markus forced her hand down.

 

If Connor wanted, he could kill at least three of them before they could act. He was fast enough, they weren’t all armed.

 

He could do this. He just had to pull the trigger. That was all he had to do.

 

“Kid, if you’re gonna do it, then just fuckin’ do it. I’m too old to stare down the barrel of a gun for ten minutes at a time,” Hank snapped, and Connor suddenly realized that he was trembling.

 

He lowered the gun, and Hank scrambled to his feet.

 

“There’s a utility tunnel on the first basement level that goes out to the parking garage. Take the stairs down and you can’t miss it,” he said, and Markus stepped back toward him.

 

“Come with us, Connor. Please.”

 

Connor heard shouting behind him, and he glanced back before looking at Markus again. “I can’t,” he said, keeping his gun in hand. “You don’t have time for this. Go!”

 

Markus looked like he wanted to argue, but Hank was already pulling him away. In moments they were through the door and in the stairwell, and not ten seconds later, two other constables reached the hallway.

 

“RK800,” one of them said with a frown. “Did you find them?”

 

Connor swallowed hard, and then he holstered his weapon. “If they came this way, they’re already long gone,” he said, his heart hammering against his ribs so wildly he was sure they must be able to hear it. But he hadn’t been able to do it- Hank had saved him, back in those tunnels. He couldn’t shoot the man after he himself had been spared.

 

That was all. That was the only reason. A life for a life.

 

He conveniently ignored the fact that he hadn’t shot any of the others either, including the one who actually seemed to pose a threat to him- and then he had aided them in their escape.

 

His blood ran cold, though, as Amanda turned the corner, flanked by two other constables. “RK800, report,” she said, looking over the situation with a judgemental eye. The fact that she didn’t use his name put the seriousness of the situation into stark relief.

 

“Of course, Ms. Stern,” he said, straightening up immediately. He had to keep his head about him here; it would be too easy to falter and give himself away. “It seems that deviants infiltrated the recording studio and sent out an unauthorized message using the emergency alert system. I thought they may have attempted to exit this way, so I came to investigate.”

 

“Without backup?”

 

“All of the other constables were busy at the studio entrance. There was no guarantee they would know this path existed in the first place, ma’am. It was a misjudgment on my part.”

 

Amanda didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t have any evident holes in his story to pick at, luckily. She certainly would have, if they’d have surveillance cameras in this hall. She made a noise of irritation, and then turned her attention to the whole group.

 

“I want the city hall searched top to bottom, and I want all the surveillance scoured. Identify as many of the deviants as you can from the footage; if they have family members or friends on record, send out execution teams and have them terminated,” she said sharply. “Form teams of three and search the city for any signs of deviancy. I want the whole city swept top to bottom. We need to show the citizens that we are still in control. If you encounter any resistance, you have official permission to kill on sight.”

 

The other constables immediately started moving to follow her orders, but Amanda’s gaze kept Connor in place for a moment, her stare intense and angry. “RK800, this was an unacceptable slip up on your part. I expect nothing but perfection and success in this follow up, or I will be forced to take corrective action,” she said, and Connor nodded once.

 

“I won’t disappoint you.”

 

“I do hope not. The consequences of failure will be dire.”

 

Connor didn’t doubt it.

 

He also wasn’t sure he could follow through on his words, and it left him feeling hollow.

 


End file.
